


L'Albatros

by Awenna



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale isn't really present, Baudelaire, But he is still relevant enough to tag him, Double Drabble, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M, if that's a thing, poem fic, sort of (read the notes)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 13:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awenna/pseuds/Awenna
Summary: Crowley is readingLes Fleurs du Malagain and it makes him think about his place in the world and where he fits.





	L'Albatros

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Day 1 of the Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 with the prompt "Dancing, Music, Poetry" and my brain went directly to Baudelaire because I have loved _Les Fleurs du Mal_ since I first studied them in French class at school and I thought it was a good fit for Crowley.  
For the non-French speakers among us, [Wikipedia has a translation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%27albatros_\(poem\)), but I'm French and the original is always better so I've included the poem in French in the fic.  
Also because I like putting restrictions on myself and because it worked well with the poetry prompt, every part in between the poem's stanza are double drabbles so 200 words, but then there are four that are part of a whole so should I say "eightfold drabble"?

_Souvent pour s’amuser, les hommes d’équipage_  
_Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,_  
_Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,_  
_Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers._

Crowley was sat in one of Aziraphale’s comfortable armchairs enjoying a glass of red wine while reading a book. He had read the book before, but always found himself coming back to it. There was something about Baudelaire’s poems that had grabbed him from the first moment he had discovered them. He had been asleep when they had been published. A shame. Someone had mentioned Les Fleurs du Mal sometime in the mid-20th century and he had had a copy ever since. Several even.  
  
He had felt seen when he had discovered the French Romantics. Something about the bittersweetness of life on Earth, about this end of century which led to feeling out of place like you did not belong, did not know where you were going.  
  
As an angel or a demon, he was but a cog in a machine, a pawn in God’s chess game, not able to do anything about anyone’s situation. He felt like the bird being played with by the ship’s sailors. He could continue to fly along with Hell’s ship. Almost a member of the ship, but not quite. Following orders he received from Below, but not quite. Doing his job, but not quite.

_À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,_  
_Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,_  
_Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches_  
_Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux._

He could not remember clearly everything that had happened before his fall, but one thing he remembered was that he had felt the same way as an angel. There had been more enthusiasm, of course. He had helped design stars, built the beauty of the sky, the magnificence of the cosmos. He had felt at peace during their creation, like he had been where he had always been meant to be. Having all the power of creation at the touch of his metaphorical fingers. Fulfilling a purpose.  
  
It had not lasted though. Creating meant imagining and in those moments when he was not creating, he had started to think. He had started to question. He had sought answers to who would give them to him. He had looked up to some other angels, some revered angels even. He sometimes wondered if it had been a mistake. Should he have been asking so many questions?  
  
But then, what would life have been if he had constantly suppressed his personality and who he was. Would it have been worth it?  
  
But then, what was the point of constant “ifs”. What had happened had happened and there was no way to change it.

_Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule !_  
_Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid !_  
_L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,_  
_L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait !_

He had fallen. That was a fact he could not change. He had not meant to fall. Of course not. He had asked Her so many times why being himself had meant falling. How was asking questions rebelling? How was trying to understand rebelling? Nothing he had done before had mattered. One “wrong” decision had sealed his fate. He had to join the underground world after having been among the stars.  
  
No more white wings, no more flying in the sky, no more light, only darkness. Hell was not a place of beauty. They encouraged humans to be vain and care about their appearance too much so as to push them towards an afterlife of suffering. Yet, no one seemed to care about their own appearance. Or rather, they all aimed at being the most repulsive they could. After the need of constant perfection in Heaven, they had chosen to reject it by embracing the polar opposite. They had rebelled like teenagers who reject all that their Parent stood for to show they did not care. To him, it looked like they cared too much. By taking care of his appearance, he was, paradoxically, the ugly duckling of the underworld. 

_Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées_  
_Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer ;_  
_Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,_  
_Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher._

He did not fit more in Hell than he had in Heaven. He had had a purpose in Heaven. Yet, by being an agent of Hell, he had had an opportunity he would probably have missed otherwise. He had been sent to Earth. The in-between place. Neither too much of Heaven nor too much of Hell. People were people. They asked questions, they did both good and bad things. They were vicious and virtuous. He had felt more at home among them than among his fellow ethereal or occult beings. Or well than among most of them.  
  
For on his first moments on Earth, his first step in this outer body which did not quite fit his inner being, he had met another being, an angel who also did not quite fit. Just as he was Below reaching for above, Aziraphale was Above reaching for below. He had known instantly that he had to keep this angel into his life somewhat. For the first time since falling, he felt less alone. Like he could reach for the stars again.  
  
As he thought those words, Aziraphale appeared behind him. “What are you thinking about?”, he asked.  
  
“Oh, just reading some poetry.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that. Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think or come and talk to me on tumblr at dontbesoevil.  
I look forward to the next days and to what other people have written, drawn, etc. (I have about one quarter of another fanfic ready, everything is fiiiiiine.)  
Also I really want to record a podfic of this one, so I'll probably do that later in the month.  
Also happy birthday to me on this beautiful and sunny day.


End file.
